


Dark Smoke

by flimsycoats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cysithea, F/M, fe3h - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27606490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsycoats/pseuds/flimsycoats
Summary: The battlefield was harsh—unyielding, dreadful, and merciless.He should know that by now.
Relationships: Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Dark Smoke

It wasn't supposed to happen.

But it did — it did.  _ Fast.  _ It happened within the blink of an eye; the embers of the dark glyphs around her fingertips dissipating ever so slowly,  _ fading _ , feeling the familiar warmth of her magic painstakingly escaping from her loose grasp. Her eyes flicker elsewhere as she falls, and suddenly all she could think of was rough brown hair, and the smoke of the burning trees in the surrounding area; poisoning the air, suffocating the soldiers, taunting Lysithea more and more with each inhale she was forced to take because of her punctured lungs.

It wasn't supposed to happen — he wasn't supposed to jump. Not in front of her.  _ Not because of her. _

But it did. He did. He pushes her out of the way and she blinks — she could feel time slowing down and then quickening again, abrupt and sudden, bestowing her with what seems to be an unending wave of frustration and helplessness; and when her back finally collides with the floor, she opens her eyes, and he was already there with her — the crimson in his optics somehow appearing natural now that his clothes were soaked with red, now that his face was riddled with even more bloody wounds.

It wasn't supposed to happen —  _ why _ did she let it happen?

The rogue that attacked her falls down to the muddy ground gracelessly, his axe laying flatly right next to his unconscious body, but all Lysithea could think of was Cyril — Cyril and  _ his _ axe that was now on the ground as well, lodged atop the clay, the shade of the leather handle getting a tad darker as the rain sullies it with its blessing. A shiver runs down her spine, and she feels a subtle aching inside her chest; at this point, she was unsure if it was because of the many injuries she's been nursing for the past few weeks, or if it was something else, something akin to both regret and hurt and disbelief and the bitter realization that Lysithea  _ could _ have stopped him.

But she didn't. She couldn't. Because when it came to it, no sound left her mouth, no words, no signs of struggle, no  _ anything. _ For a moment, she ponders if she concealed her Miasma intentionally; was the war finally taking its toll on her? Her strength, resolve, her determination — were they beginning to waver? In the face of adversity, she's never backed down before; not without a fight. But it's been nearly four years. Four years of unyielding arrogance and limitless sacrifices. Four years of torment and pain and anguish because she couldn't  _ stand _ to see another body of someone she used to care for drop lifelessly to the ground. Four years of never being able to sleep the same way she used to because the ghosts were real this time, and they watched her, they haunted her nightly dreams and her daily wishes, always lying idly in the corner of her mind.

Cyril wasn't supposed to defend her.

The urge to scream reaches her throat, but even then, she couldn't muster out the slightest hum. She can feel her pupils dilating with distress as she moves towards him.  _ Closer. _ She lets her worries vanquish for a while, entrusting the fight to the rest of her comrades, focusing on the dilemma at hand. The dirt from the ground paints her white attire with dark brown and green, feeling the edges of the grass poking at her skin. She takes a deep breath. The smoke was still there, and the clashes of weapons and the screams of the people echo chaotically inside her head, muffling the sounds of her inner emotions in the process.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

His hand grazes hers, and she finds herself breaking away from her thoughts, a sense of panic overflowing her system as she registers the events that had just transpired. Cyril's ivory chestplate was drenched with his own blood — thick, dark, and nauseating. She feels the intensity of his stare prickling idly at her skin, but she could never look at him; afraid that he'd catch on about the emotions that she so desperately kept hidden ever since Edelgard declared the war. But it lingers, and somehow, his stare alone felt more suffocating than the black smoke that circulated the fields. She directs her focus on his chest, on the sleeves of his dark green armor, tears soon slipping out from the corner of her eyes as she sees the Alliance symbol engraved on his shoulder pads; and only when she hears him call out her name does she let her pink eyes fall gracefully on his own.

_ How could I let this happen? _

“Lysithea,” Cyril coughs. “Go, now. Before Claude sends reinforcements.”

His voice reaches her ears, and she swoons, momentarily forgetting the pleas in the background and the roars of the thunder.  _ He was still alive.  _ Her tears cascade from her cheeks and onto his chest, lightly tightening her grip around his hand as she lets her hair drop by the side of her face. His voice — still akin to the sound of pouring bitter tea during summer mornings, the birds chirping aggressively from the branches of the trees, the sound of people engaging in lively conversations. She remembers. The times the two of them stayed in libraries, in her room, and the times they stayed in whatever place they could think of because it didn't matter to them at all, as long as they were in each other's presence. She _ remembers  _ because she never forgot — how could she?

She could never forget — not that she would want to, anyway.

_ Idiot. _ Lysithea wants to desperately croak out, but no matter how hard she tried, no sound came from her. The sky was getting darker. If it was cold earlier, then it was colder now, because she could no longer feel the heat that the adrenaline of fighting provided her; she could no longer feel. It was nerve-racking, because she was in the middle of everything, crying her heart out again because of someone she couldn't save, and she was complaining about the numbness.  _ Stupid, stupid.  _ She was absolutely  _ stupid _ for letting this get the best of her.

He shouldn't have saved her. That's rule number one.

She feels his hand cupping the right of her pale cheeks, cherishing the warmth that he radiated, soon placing her palm atop his to selfishly indulge in something that she shouldn't — because it would just bring the both of them more pain in the long run, more regret, more guilt. She hears the sound of incoming footsteps from afar, and a sense of urgency flows inside her veins, but she makes no move to get up from her position; instead, she squeezes Cyril's hand, reassuringly, her eyelids fluttering close as she tries to find the courage to speak.

He looks at her — or, at least, he tries to. How long has it been? She hasn't changed that much, he wants to say, but he decides against it. Her hair grew longer, and her soft hands grew more calloused over the years — he knew it was selfish of him to be happy about it, but it made him feel somewhat closer to her in a sense that she was no longer out of his reach like before.  _ We're together right now, aren't we? _ Her voice echoes in his head; sweet, melodious, and calming, giving him just the right amount of nostalgia that he needed to stay awake for the time-being.

He wasn't supposed to save her.

She wasn't supposed to mourn.

The steps of the cavalries reverberate across the field. Lysithea hears the sound of her leader faintly in the background. She looks at Cyril, her hand still on his, and when she reluctantly lets her pink irises lock onto his own crimson ones, she is out of breath once again; the comforts of their memories swirling rapidly inside her chest.

“You weren't supposed to save me, Cyril.” She cries out, pathetically, her voice coming out as rushed whispers. “We are no longer allies — you know very well that things are different now.”

What he says next only sends her shivering from the cold even more.

_ “Head back to Enbarr! Victory has been seized!” _

She hears the screams of her comrades, the tapping of metal against the stones ringing loudly across the entire field. The smoke grows denser around the air, but she is no longer breathless when she rises, taking Cyril's last words to heart as she trudged on back to their fort.

_ “Well,” He chuckles fondly, but she knew him all too well, and she knew that he was only doing so to mask his pain. His heart was slowing down. “We're together right now, aren't we?” _

When at war, whatever history you may have, you should not save your enemies — that's rule number one.

**Author's Note:**

> for clarification — this is an au wherein lysithea sides with edelgard during the war, and cyril sides with claude and the others. 
> 
> thank you for reading! <3


End file.
